


Lost In Paradise

by oldtimeyryan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Injury, M/M, Post Reichenbach, References to Suicide, Sherlock is honestly a massive sap, Songfic, mentions of past suicide attempts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:19:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldtimeyryan/pseuds/oldtimeyryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You love him, don't you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost In Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: rosa
> 
> I was listening to this song in October last year, and it automatically made me think of Sherlock. (And Dean Winchester, but we won't talk about that...) And I decided to write a songfic for the first time in a while. And I finally finished it!
> 
> Thank you to rosa for being a kind, beautiful beta and correcting this to make it even more beautiful. I'm proud of it even more now and thank you for making me look professional, love. Thank you to MysteriousMind for her help and relentless research, and her patience through my constant complaints and urgings. And thank you to IBegToDreamAndDiffer for being a great muse and an even greater friend. I owe you a lot, and you weren't even involved with this story. <3

 

_I’ve been believing,_

_In something so distant,_

_As if I was human._

_And I’ve been denying,_

_This feeling of hopelessness,_

_In me, in me._

_All the promises I made,_

_Just to let you down,_

_You believed in me but I’m broken._

_I have nothing left,_

_And all I feel is this cruel,_

_Wanting,_

_We’ve been falling for all this time,_

_And now I’m lost in paradise._

_As much as I’d like the past,_

_Not to exist,_

_It still does._

_And as much as I’d like,_

_To feel like I belong here,_

_I’m just as scared as you._

_All the promises I made,_

_Just to let you down,_

_You believed in me but I’m broken._

_I have nothing left,_

_And all I feel is this cruel,_

_Wanting,_

_We’ve been falling for all this time,_

_And now I’m lost in paradise._

_Run away, run away,_

_One day we won’t feel this pain anymore._

_Take it all the way,_

_Shadows of you,_

_‘Cause they won’t,_

_Let me go._

_So, I have nothing left,_

_And all I feel is this cruel,_

_Wanting,_

_We’ve been falling for all this time,_

_And now I’m lost in paradise._

_Alone, and lost in paradise._

**Lost In Paradise © Evanescence**

**2011 – Wind Up Records**

Time will pass you by if you close your eyes for long enough, reducing your ability to observe the world and the insignificant to nothing. _Dull_ and _boring_ would be the first words to come to my mind if placed in this position, but here I am, eyes closed as I try to control my breathing. My pulse is one hundred and eighty beats per minute and behind my closed lids is an action movie of all my memories. Criminals in the darkened alleys of London, the cold, solid metal of a gun pressed to the back of my neck or to my temple. The smell of bad Chinese is so strong I can almost believe that I am sitting in Baker Street, observing and deducing my flatmate- and best friend- John Watson. His name, even as a whisper in my head, makes my heart constrict painfully. Emotion, emotion’s boring. But John isn’t. John is… a mystery. Ordinary, yes, but still a mystery to me. But he is my friend; although maybe not now, if you consider the stunt I pulled three years ago.

Three years ago I would most probably be in this position, hidden in a basement of a threat or criminal; but I would have John, _my John_ , by my side, ever watchful for movement, his strong fingers gripping the Browning L9A1 ready to shoot at an intruder. But this time I was alone - and even though I had been in this predicament many times in the 35 months, 6 weeks, 2 days, 8 hours and 47 minutes since I left London, _and John_ , it still felt like an anomaly to not have my familiar blogger by my side.

I was alone in Hawaii, tracking a man by the name of Sebastian Moran, the last link in Moriarty’s web, and his on –again-off-again lover. _Seeking revenge for Moriarty’s suicide. He blames himself, and by extension, me. Right handed, carries an L115A3 long range rifle and a Sig Sauer P226R, both from when he served in Afghanistan. (Don’t think about John. Cannot be distracted. Mustn’t be distracted.) In Hawaii to rid himself of the guilt of dear Jim’s death- cold-blooded suicide - please stop with the sentiment, it’s so **boring** \- and to get some sunshine away from the London gloom_. I had been waiting 39 minutes and 5 seconds for him to come back into the house. The floor creaked above me, and I sucked in a soft breath and held it in my lungs, which in turn caused my heart rate to pick up. Adrenaline rushed through my veins as I crept up to the hatch. I heard the unmistakable click of a kettle being put on, a vision of blue eyes and distasteful jumpers appearing before my eyes for half a second. I snuck into the house, pressing my frame to the walls, hidden in the darkness. I listened to the footsteps shuffling around the kitchen, and I gripped the gun concealed in my jacket pocket. I hadn’t used it yet; the lives I had threatened were not worth taking. Instead, they were handed over to Mycroft and I flitted from country to country, destroying what Moriarty had built, so I could return home. _To John because I need John I want John I want home I still need JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn_. I closed my eyes for a few moments before walking into the kitchen.

“Moran, so good to see you,” I spoke, my voice veiled and emotionless. The man in front of me started in surprise. Predictable. Slowly, he turned to me, his right hand instinctively moving to his jacket pocket. I was quicker, obviously, and within seconds my gun was aimed directly at his forehead.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Moran drawled, his voice making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “I watched you smash your ‘ead on the pavement instead of lettin’ me paint the town with your lover boy’s brains.”

I gave an over-exaggerated eye roll, keeping the gun focused on the centre of his forehead. “You _saw_ but you didn’t _observe_. Ordinary people are so idiotic.” I watched him swipe his tongue across his dry lips. _Nervousness_. His hand was resting near where his gun was quite obviously hidden, his index finger twitching almost imperceptibly. I ignored his quip about John, as I already knew that Moran was the one supposed to shoot him. Keeping my eyes on the sniper I sent a quick text to Mycroft, giving him my location. Moran’s eyes never left me, as though he was trying to exceed his level of intelligence and find some information in my body language. As I watched, his dull eyes lit up and his lips twitched into a malicious smirk. My heart stilled in my chest.

“If you’re not dead, then Watson can still be killed. So can that ‘ousekeeper of yours and the Yard’s pet,” His face was alive now. “James can still be avenged properly too. Once they’re dead, I can shoot you m’self.”

Over the years, I’d become awfully skilled at distancing myself from feelings and humane needs. Living off one or two hours of sleep, and not eating for days on end. I felt nothing, unless it came to John. And, apparently, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. I swallowed audibly, watching a satisfied smile appear on Moran’s face.

“You will not touch them,” I growled, and I released the safety on the gun. Moran scoffed, his earlier fear evaporating into cockiness and over-confidence.

“I know you, ‘Olmes,” he said, voice becoming insufferably gruff. “You wouldn’t shoot me.”

“Watch. Me.” I articulated my words, and he just laughed. He laughed for five minutes and twenty-three seconds.

If five words could destroy Sherlock Holmes, they would be the five that next slipped out of Moran’s poisonous lips. They stopped my heart, something I had never thought possible. But Moran had seen right through me; my mask had slipped when a threat to John was voiced. He saw what I had been avoiding for months and hiding for years _. Love. How is it that Sherlock Holmes has fallen in love? Is the apocalypse upon us? No, that is impossible. But so is feeling love, especially for someone so ordinary and dull and predictable and beautiful and amazing and an absolute lifesaver… Stop thinking about him. You left him. You left London to stop breathing him in. You left London to do this for him, for **them**_. “You love him, don’t you?”

I was momentarily silenced, his words freezing my mind for a fraction of a second. I chose not to answer, which made him laugh again. “Fancy that! Sherlock ‘Olmes, fallin’ in love and dyin’ to save his _friends_ ,” He spat the last word, reminding me of Moriarty, which led me to think of the rooftop of St. Barts, which in turn made me think of John. _Stop_.

“If you had a chance, Sebastian, would you die for Jim Moriarty?” I spoke clearly, hearing the faint sound of tires on gravel. _Mycroft is getting faster… Good_. “If you loved him, would you have taken his spot on the rooftop?” Moran’s face darkened with hatred and guilt. He didn’t answer, but instead whipped out his gun with expert speed. I was, admittedly, a tad impressed; then thought with a hint of pride about how much faster John was. I watched him turn off the safety and I smirked, the thrill pouring through me. Words came back to me from four long years ago, drifting faintly on the breath of a long dead man: _This is what you’re really addicted to_. And he was right. Two things still held my interest and kept me on the socially acceptable side of sanity. One of them was here now.

“Stop tryin’ to stall me, ‘Olmes,” Moran sneered. “Watson will die, if not by my ‘and then someone else’s. Your brilliant plan’s failed, and now you’re goin’ to lose the only thing that’s ever made you feel ‘uman.” I knew I had blanched because Moran’s face twisted happily.

“James never loved you,” My voice was nothing more than a deadly whisper. Keeping the gun fixated on the middle of Moran’s forehead, I watched the five different emotions play across his face. _Fury, guilt, love, sadness, understanding. Dull, dull, and dull_. “And you will never get to arrange John’s assassination. You will be dead long before then.” There were three gunshots. A body dropped. The gun in my hands shook a little as the red haze clouding my vision cleared. Blood seeped onto the stark white tiles of the kitchen, and I realised the kettle was still whistling. Sebastian Moran was dead, blood and brain matter surrounding his sprawled figure in the same manner of one on a rooftop long ago. I spun around and met the eyes of my brother, who was holding a gun, _my John’s gun_ , in front of him. My eyes flickered back to Moran. There were two dark bullet holes in his forehead, one just above his left eye. A second ticked by, white hot pain seared through my body, and Mycroft’s eyes widened at the same second I realized I had been shot. He pocketed the Browning and strode over to me - I tried to tell him I was fine, that the bullet had only reached my arm, but my mouth remained closed. Uncharacteristically, I let my brother treat my arm as his men took Moran’s body away.

“He threatened John,” I told him. I was in one of Mycroft’s cars, the wound on my upper arm stitched and covered with gauze. I had barely noticed the passage of time. His eyes met mine and I noted the protectiveness within them; for me and, it seemed, John.

“We know,” he said, obviously trying to keep his voice neutral. “Inspector Lestrade is with him as we speak. We got him to start visiting your grave again. Nothing has changed since my last visit, as far as I can tell.” Pain that had nothing to do with the gunshot wound tore through me.

“Suicide attempts?” My voice was strained.

“One,” Mycroft answered after a moment of hesitation. “That makes five in the three years since you have been gone. Sherlock, he is almost lost.”

I winced as I turned from him. “John is strong. He will let go of me eventually.”

“So you would like to think.” My brother always managed to sound so divorced from what I felt, and it infuriated me. “Sherlock, Moran is dead, and he was the last link, the very last one. If you wish, you can go back to England tonight.” I turned to him sharply, a small stab of pain shooting up my neck. Of course I ignored it. I didn’t speak, but evidently my eyes said everything my brother needed to hear because Mycroft gave a little nod, the corner of his lips quirking upwards as he turned away. Out of the tinted windows I watched the sun rise above the horizon, shading the sky red and orange.

“I want to hear his voice,” I said suddenly, turning back to Mycroft. I knew he still had the flat, _our flat_ , bugged, along with my grave. “Please,” I added, trying not to sound too emotional or sentimental. Love is a dangerous disadvantage. “Very well,” Mycroft reached into his pocket and pulled out an MP3 device and a pair of headphones. Our fingers touched briefly as I took it, and I saw the fleeting relief that crossed his face before being replaced with the usual expressionless mask. For once I ignored it, placing the headphones into my ears. His voice was so clear, almost as if he was right next to me, and my heart squeezed painfully.

“ _…Three years ago, I asked for a miracle. Now I’m begging for it. Sherlock, I need to you to come back, to England, to Baker Street, to me, to life. God... you were a fucking genius, you could have crafted a way to fall without dying, but even you had flaws. You had me convinced you weren’t human for a lot of the time I knew you, but you were. I could hear it… that day. That phone call, I heard it in your voice. Sherlock, fuck, please come back. I believe in you, I’ll always believe in you. You never told me a lie, so don’t… Don’t start now_.” John’s voice was broken by the end of the recording and I could hear his tears, practically taste them on my tongue. It took me half a moment to realize that my vision had blurred and my eyes were stinging. Swallowing down the lump in my throat before emotion reared its monstrous head, I returned the device to Mycroft. I didn’t thank him, just turned back to the window. I didn’t look at him until I arrived at the airport for my plane back to England and to a sense of normality, which tasted faintly of toast and smelt of tea wrapped in oatmeal-coloured wool jumpers.

 

*

London was surprisingly warm when I landed; the clouds had parted and there was a glimpse of blue sky. The wind was nothing more than a whisper, but it wasn’t quite warm enough to remove my scarf and coat. I pulled out my new phone—my old one had been smashed when I threw it to the side before the Fall—and sent a message to Mycroft.

 

> _Landed in Heathrow. Disable the cameras at 221B and my grave. I’ll need privacy when I find John. SH_

Pocketing it, I made my way to another Mycroft-British-Government-Issue car and got in. Mycroft’s ever-silent assistant greeted me.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she said, not looking up from her Blackberry.

“Rochelle,” I murmured, using the name Mycroft had supplied. “You know where to take me.” Rochelle flicked two fingers in the driver’s general direction and the car began to move.

“Dr. Watson is with his therapist,” she said, her fingers dancing along the keys. “He will be at the graveyard in two hours - oh, and Mycroft disabled the voice recorder. He hopes your reunion goes well.” I scoffed lightly, which made the woman’s lips twist into the beginnings of a smile. Mycroft had known from the beginning what I felt, and it annoyed me that he had known before I had.

“I can wait for him.” I left the _I waited for four years_ implied. She simply nodded and remained silent for the rest of the drive. I thought over all the possible reunion scenarios; from anger and John leaving me like he should have so long ago, to tears and cold-hearted words. There was a possibility that John would never forgive me, and instead hate me like ordinary people did. I took a deep breath, nerves getting the better of me for the first time in years. _Damn you, John Watson, what have you done to me?_ The car stopped and I opened the door, bidding my farewell to Rochelle. I didn’t wait for an answer as I walked down to the tree I had stood by three years ago, where I watched John ask for his miracle. I remember how I felt that day, watching him limp away, listening to him cry. I had tried to delete the sound of John’s weakness from my mind, but it kept coming back to me. And it hurt. I leaned against the tree, counting my heartbeats, trying to keep my breathing in a regular pattern. I stood there until I heard someone approaching. Then I hung back in the shadows of the tree and watched the thinner, greyer John Watson limp towards my grave. Those dreadful emotions washed over me again as I moved forwards, closer to where John stood. He wasn’t speaking yet, just taking deep breaths as if he was trying to centre himself. I tried not to make any noises that might alert him to my presence, though I ached for his touch.

 

> _Tedious, sentimental, a distraction- Not working, not a case, there’s nothing to be distracted from- He’s my best friend, my only friend, if I lose him, whatever grip on sanity and knowledge of humanity I gained from him will be lost- Love is a weakness, a harmful player in the great game- Use it to strengthen you, Sherlock, love is so much more powerful than people realise- Caring is not advantage- But John is._

And then John started speaking, and it felt like the aorta had been torn away from both my atriums and ventricles. My throat tightened and my heart rate increased. My composure was tearing at the seams, the stitches snapping audibly in my ears, almost drowning out John’s words.

“Um, hi, Sherlock…” John cleared his throat. I almost choked on the lump rising in my throat. “I guess you might be getting pretty tired of me right now, considering the fact that ever since your dick of a brother and the detective inspector dragged me out of the house I’ve been here... In a month it’ll have been three years. Did you know that, Sherlock? Three years ago, you…” John stopped, the words obviously catching in his throat. My lips parted, words dancing on my tongue, but they soon died as John took three shuddering breaths in and exhaled after holding them in his lungs for approximately 7 seconds. “You died, and left the world to burn. So, I miss you, and I need you. And that’s all I wanted to say.” I watched him close his eyes and I stepped out from the shadows, my tongue flicking out to wet my lips. I inhaled before I let myself speak.

“Your compassion has never bored me, John.” My voice sounded smaller than I had anticipated. There was a hint of amusement in it, yes, but that was virtually undetectable underneath the far more obvious guilt and pathetic anguish. I watched his shoulders stiffen before his eyes opened and he raised his head to look at me. There was a lightning-bolt moment where we just stared at each other, one of the stares we shared continually in the lead-up to the fall. His blue eyes flickered over my face, observing me, trying to deduce me. I, of course, took the opportunity to take a good look at him. _Two hours of sleep, at most. Woke up crying, thinking about taking those pills his therapist gave him. Hasn’t eaten in two… two and a half days. He’s lost a tremendous amount of weight, unable to determine how much through that hideous jumper. More grey in his hair now, stress. But it’s still John, my John_.

The silence was broken when John spoke in a strangled voice. “You. Fucking. _Dick_.” His words held a toxin that stopped my mind from functioning, and time seemed to slow down as his fist connected with my face. Pain blossomed through me, though it was nothing compared to the pain of Moran’s gunshot. I felt my body twist from the impact - John could still throw an impressive punch – and I was momentarily disoriented. It took a few seconds for my body to catch up, and I pressed my hand to the already-swelling area.

“Well, I can’t say I didn’t expect that,” I said, my tone barely changing. John’s eyes took on a frantic look, like he suddenly doubted his mind. _Nothing to worry about, my dear John. Please stop worrying._

“No,” John rasped, tears welling in his eyes. Torment raged within me. “ _No_. You aren’t here. You are _dead_ , Sherlock, oh God, I’m standing at your bloody headstone!”

“John-” My tone changed then, reflecting the internal battle going on within me.

“I watched you fall, I took… I took your pulse, for Christ’s sake!” he ran a hand over his face, checking for any fallen tears. I desperately wanted to comfort him. “Right, well, I’ve finally gone insane.” John’s voice was shaking horrifically, like he was on the verge of falling into an abyss. He was looking at everything but me. I wanted to reach out and grab him, make him look at me, make him forgive me.

“John, _please_ ,” There was a hint of desperation in my tone. I was a worryingly small step away from begging. “Look at me.” John’s breathing was harsh, like he’d been running. His eyes slowly flickered up to meet mine before dropping to my chest.

“Great, fucking _brilliant._ ” John clenched his fists, and I braced myself for another strike. It never came, though, and I let my gaze drop to the grass, studying the ground below my feet. Nothing useful, delete later.

“John, I am sorry,” I said, after the silence between us became too much. I hadn’t been able to talk to anyone for days on end; but with John, right now, silence was something I couldn’t have. It suffocated me. I lifted my eyes and met John’s, not looking anywhere but his eyes. “I never meant for this to happen, for me to be gone for so long.” And I meant it. I had estimated it would take a year to save John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, but when Moran and his associates of the web kept slipping through my fingers, time stretched.

“Why? Why now?”

“Moriarty has no more associates. I have taken them all down.” I decided it would be best not to add why it took so long, or even directly answer John’s question. “I had to fake my death to accomplish that.”

“And you couldn’t have told me what you were planning?” John’s voice was a dangerously low growl. I opened my mouth to explain why, but he silenced me with a lift of his hand. “No, Sherlock, I need to say this. Have you got any idea at all what your absence did to me? To Mrs Hudson? To your mother and Mycroft? To Lestrade? It destroyed us, shook us to the fucking core. Three years, Sherlock, three years you were gone. I visited your grave every day until I couldn’t take it. I wanted to kill myself, okay? I was hell-bent on ending my life because it wouldn’t stop. Harry called it survivor’s guilt, but she was wrong. I had nightmares about you, I saw you fall every night. I screamed myself bloody hoarse, but you still fell. Do you know what that does to a person? No, because you’re Sherlock fucking Holmes, incapable of thinking about anyone but himself!” His last statement hurt me. I had been told more ‘hurtful’ things in my life and most of them I had repeated and then deleted; but John’s words were harsher than I have ever heard from him, and suddenly I knew this situation could go down two different paths. Both of them ended in John walking away... for good. “I spent three years wishing you’d come back, but you know what? I don’t want to see you. I can’t... I can’t _do_ this, Sherlock. I just… can’t.” John broke down, tears making shining tracks on his pale cheeks. Every breath he took reflected the tears that he had obviously been holding back since he punched me. Two minutes and 57 seconds later, he wiped his face and seemed to make up his mind about something. His head jerked in a stiff nod and his hand gripped his cane. I could see he was preparing to walk away from here, from me, but I couldn’t let him. I _wouldn’t_ let him leave me, not like everyone else had, because he was different, and I needed him. Only now I saw how much. I grasped his hand in mine and searched his face, asking, begging, and pleading for him to stay.

“You always said you could never understand me, John.” I didn’t bother trying to level out my voice, to make it seem that I was above the emotion I was observing and assessing within myself. “Let me explain, please, that is all I am asking.”

John didn’t move from my grip, and a sense of relief tore through me. I tightened my fingers, just a little, but enough so it was noticeable. “You said five words to me the last time I saw your face, five words that I have thought about for three years. _No, Sherlock, friends protect people_. That’s what I did, what I had to do. Protect you. Protect my friends,” John opened his mouth to interrupt, but I lifted my free hand to stop him, almost smiling when I saw the familiar irritation cross his face. “On the rooftop, I spoke with Moriarty. The computer code was a lie, a lie to keep me dancing. Everything Moriarty did leading up to that moment was a lie. He told me something that I had not been expecting, but it made my plan even more effective. John, you have to believe that I didn’t want to do this, especially to you. I didn’t think that my death would affect you as badly as it did. I had no idea that your feelings went that far. I suspected it, but it did not _click_.

Three gunmen, three victims, John. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and you. My life for theirs. For yours. I needed you to be safe, I always, _always_ needed you to be safe. It’s why I did what I did. You were always there to protect me, and this time I had to return the favour. Friends protect people, John,” I took a breath, the words coming now like a volcano or an Australian bush inferno. Maybe a combination of both. Fairly interesting. “And I can tell from your eyes that you don’t believe me. I recorded the conversation for this exact moment, and for when you drag me off to Lestrade.” I knew I had made a face of disgust, because John’s face twisted in silent laughter. I grabbed the voice recorder I had had on my person since that day and pressed play, from my footsteps ascending the stairs to the rooftop of St. Barts. It faintly caught _Stayin’ Alive_ by The Bee Gees from Moriarty’s phone. The recording had our whole conversation, as clear as day, drifting from its tiny speakers. John’s face was guarded and his eyes were hard as he listened, and I couldn’t determine if he believed me or not. His mask did fall when that snake-like voice practically spat _Oh, just kill yourself, it’s a lot less effort_. It was up again in an instant, until his name was mentioned. I let my eyes flutter closed as I relived the shock and fear that had raised its ugly head that day on the roof.

‘John?’

‘Not just John. Everyone.’

‘Mrs Hudson?’

‘Everyone.’

‘Lestrade?’

I could remember standing on the ledge. I could still feel the wind against my figure as I looked down at the pavement. I could remember my laughter when I realized that I could stop the snipers. I could remember the nausea, the dose of shock and raw disgust when Moriarty decorated the rooftop with his blood and brains. I felt John flinch when the gunshot went off, and we both knew what was coming next.

 

> _Hello?_
> 
> _John._
> 
> _Hey, Sherlock, you okay?_
> 
> _Turn around and walk back the way you came now._
> 
> _No, I’m coming in._
> 
> _Just do as I ask. Plea_ _se._
> 
> _Where?_
> 
> _Stop there._
> 
> _Sherlock?_
> 
> _Okay, look up; I’m on the rooftop._
> 
> _Oh God…_
> 
> _I… I… I can’t come down, so we’ll… We’ll just have to do it like this._
> 
> _What’s going on?_
> 
> _An apology. It’s all true._
> 
> _Wh-What? Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty._
> 
> _Why are you saying this?_
> 
> _I’m a fake._
> 
> _Sherlock… The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly… In fact, tell anyone that will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes._
> 
> _Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met… The first time we met, you knew all about my sister._
> 
> _Nobody could be that clever._
> 
> _You could._

I remember the bubble of laughter that rose at that moment, unexpected through my tears. And I was crying, knowing I was leaving behind the life I built around John, and just… leaving John. Those tears we were both reliving, they were real.

 

> _I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you. It’s a trick. It’s just a magic trick._
> 
> _No. All right, stop it now. No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move. All right._
> 
> _Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?_
> 
> _Do what?_
> 
> _This phone call – it’s, er… It’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?_
> 
> _Leave a note when?_
> 
> _Goodbye, John._
> 
> _No. Don’t._

The recording picked up everything, from the clatter of my phone hitting the roof and smashing to John’s yell of my name. John’s breathing next to me was hard and pained - but, to be fair, so was mine. I squeezed my eyes closed as wind rushed through the speakers, indicating I was falling. There was a muffled thump, indicating that my body had landed on something softer than pavement. The recording ended there. I could feel John’s shuddering sobs, and I felt my own tears dripping down my cheeks and chin. I didn’t bother to wipe them away as I pocketed the recorder and held both of John’s wrists in my fingers, feeling his pulse thrum against the tips. There was a heartbeat before John pulled me to him and then everything around me erupted, my senses screaming a chorus of Johns, and then then his arms were around my waist and securing me in my position. I ducked my head and buried my face into the curve of his neck, where again I found his pulse. I felt it throb against my nose and lips, the feeling more addictive than any drug I’d ever tried. The air around us felt like it was sizzling with new-found electricity, and a mild buzzing filled my mind. The embrace was held for a full four minutes before John pulled back. Our gazes met again, and John’s fingers caught my chin. A jolt of pure attraction burst through me, almost blinding me. I licked my lips again, my heart racing. _Imagine that, Sherlock Holmes even seeming **human**_.

I knew what was about to happen. A million conflicting thoughts crashed into my head at once. Not meeting John’s expectations, or giving too much and scaring him off? It was like a court hearing in my mind which instantly went silent the second John’s lips met mine. Everything went blissfully blank, and after a little coaxing, I began to test what I could do. Whatever I did John seemed to like, and the kiss made time stand still. When it finished, and I opened my eyes after the bliss past, John looked faintly amused.

“I hate you,” he said. My heart dropped, until I saw the smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Never, ever do that again, and if you are planning to fake your death, warn me. In fact, warn all the people closest to you.” His hand enclosed mine, even though my hand was significantly bigger.

“I will warn you,” I agreed. Although the reason I didn’t tell John was that if he knew I had faked my death, he still would have been killed. So I stole another kiss from him, mostly to reassure myself that he was actually there. “Perhaps we should go back to Baker Street. I expect Mrs Hudson is worrying.”

“She’ll have a bloody heart attack when I tell her you’re alive, you tit,” John said, collecting his cane. I scowled a little at the sight of it, but didn’t comment. He wouldn’t need it again, because now I had no reason to leave him. John was mine to keep.

 

*

Mrs Hudson didn’t have a heart attack per se, but she did go into shock. And then she hit me repeatedly with the feather duster she had been holding. And then she cried and hugged me and scolded me like a mother would. The whole time, I just stayed quiet and watched her affectionately. Once she had hit me once more, she left the flat with a promise to be back later and with the expectation of a proper apology. The flat became silent, until John spoke from his armchair, his voice filled with curiosity and _life_.

“How did you do it? Survive the fall?” Slowly, I turned and approached his chair. I didn’t want to tell him, because I already knew the outcome. But this was John, and his face was so open and his eyes full of loyalty and trust, two things no person had ever shown towards me before.

“I, uh… planned it with Molly,” I said, not looking at him. “What?”

“Please don’t make me repeat myself, John.”

“You… planned the whole thing? With Molly? She knew the whole time?” John’s voice was incredulous. “You trusted her and not me?”

“John,” I raised my voice a little and introduced a note of authority. “Let me explain before you make petty judgements.” I fixed him with a piercing gaze, with he returned with a glare of his own.

“Right. Fine. Go ahead.” John leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed across his chest. I rolled my eyes at his display of childishness.

_“What do you need?”_

_“You,” I approached her. “I need you, Molly Hooper.” I watched the light in Molly’s eyes grow, but she still didn’t understand completely. I wasn’t using her schoolgirl crush to my advantage - really - but I knew what she could offer me in order to stage this._

_“What do you need me to do?”_

_“I need a body, recently deceased, preferably frozen. This body need to be male, with a similar build to my own. I will then need you to make a prosthetic of my head and face. The blood will be supplied by me. I will then need you to be the one who does my autopsy. I can trust only you with this, Molly.” Molly’s face shone with understanding and a hint of sadness._

_“How long have you been planning this?” Her voice was barely a whisper, as if she was afraid we might be caught._

_“Since Baskerville, perhaps a bit longer,” I murmured, not taking my eyes off her face. She nodded, and her eyes asked a question I couldn’t answer. Gently, I kissed her forehead. “Thank you.” My voice was barely audible, but I knew she heard me. Without another word, she hurried off to do what I asked. After she was gone, I organised the phone call to John about Mrs Hudson being shot so the plan could be set in motion and I could meet with Moriarty, alone._

_It was a while before Molly returned, telling me everything was ready. Her cheeks were blotched and her eyes bloodshot. She’d been crying. I thanked her, and told her that I would see her later. She left without a backwards glance, and the show began._

_On the rooftop with Moriarty, in my moment of privacy, I looked over the ledge. I could see the people - my homeless network - walking around, ready to be witnesses. There was my body double sitting on the bench closest to where I would be falling. As I got ready to jump, I reworked Moriarty’s words in my head and found a loophole. That ended up in Moriarty blowing his brains out and causing my initial plan to go through._

“Why did I make you watch? Because if you came closer, you would have seen everything in place. And I needed you to believe I was really dead, for your safety. I am sorry John, that my last words to you were lies. I am sorry for making you watch me fall.” I was looking at him intently. His body language had not changed.

“Yes, Sherlock, but the actual fall?”

_I closed my eyes and held my arms out. I put all my body weight on my toes and I felt myself falling. I heard my name, yelled from where John was standing. I opened my eyes and my arms flailed pathetically at my side. I saw my destination and aimed myself towards that – the lorry filled with garbage bags. The second I landed in there, my body double was put perfectly into place with my freshly-given blood poured across the forehead and on the pavement in copious amounts . I closed my eyes for a moment before the truck drove away. The last thing I saw was John being hit by the cyclist._

_The truck knew exactly where to take me, and I ended up at Molly’s house. The plan was for her to look after me until I could take a jet to Ireland and begin taking apart Moriarty’s web, to save the people I needed. I also needed Mycroft to believe I was dead, at least for a while; being my brother, he would be the first person people would go to._

_Molly and I both knew that I had a concussion from landing in the truck. When she took me into the sitting room, I handed her the blue ball._

_“He cannot see this,” I told her, my voice bordering on frantic. “John cannot know I’m alive. His survival depends on it. So does Mrs Hudson’s, and Lestrade’s.” Molly took the ball, and from then on she treated me with nothing more than friendly concern. We were both quiet the next day when the newspaper arrived on her doorstep._

 

_**SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS** _

_“They really believe everything that Kitty Riley said?” she whispered, looking up at me. I didn’t answer. Well, not directly._

_“I want to go to my funeral,” I announced. “Whenever it is prepared, I want to go.” Molly didn’t argue, and a week later I was at my funeral. I kept my eyes on John at all times. Even when he was at the podium, unable to do his speech, even as he whispered something unintelligible to the casket. I watched as the coffin was taken away and felt my heart lift a little as the public began their chant of ‘We believe in Sherlock Holmes’._

_I was back at Molly’s by the time she came back from the wake. She had been crying a lot during the funeral - and apparently at the wake too, going by the state of her eyes._

_“How is John?” I asked immediately. She didn’t answer._

_The day eventually came for me to leave England. I had thanked Molly, who cried, hugged me and made me promise to be careful with whatever I was doing._

_After I left, I found John. I knew he was talking to my grave, but I was too far away to hear the words. He didn’t have his cane, which I took as a good sign. If only I had known why. That evening, I left England. I wouldn’t return for three years._

I leaned back in my chair, watching John. He had relaxed by now, and his eyes had dropped to the floor. “You were worried about me when you were gone?”

“You were the reason I was fighting,” I replied, a rare hint of sentimentality in my voice. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade meant a lot to me, but not as much as John. Every murder I had watched over the past three years, had _committed_ , had been for his safety.

“Sherlock, if you’re going to do something as fucking stupid as that again, I’m begging you to talk to me first. We’ll make it through, okay?” I knew I looked doubtful, so John crossed over to my armchair and cupped my cheeks, his fingertips brushing lightly over the bone. I had to repress an anticipatory shiver. “Do you trust me?”

“More than I trust myself,” I replied, in complete honesty. Before I could see it coming, John was upon me and our mouths were pressed together in what only can be described as a battle. My body responded happily, blood rushing to my groin and heart pounding in my chest, and tongues and teeth connected as if we were both trying to devour the other. John’s fingers were in my hair, his grip tight, and my hands were on his hips as I held on for dear life. The kiss became more heated, and I felt my body take over my mind for the first time since I could remember. I lifted my hips to meet John and he moaned into my mouth. Interesting. Our lips broke apart, our breathing heavy.

“Sherlock…” John’s voice was broken, filled with indescribable emotion. His pupils were blown, dark with lust, and his arousal was pressed up against my own. I swallowed thickly, and jerked my head toward the bedroom. The movement exposed my neck, which had been shed of scarf and coat collar earlier that evening. John was instantly there, his mouth on my flesh, sucking at it, sending shockwaves through my body. Who knew that something that untidy could be so arousing? Then John was biting at the already tender spot, and when he pulled back a bruise was beginning to appear. “Bedroom,” John agreed and got off my lap. I was barely upright before our mouths were together again, and we were stumbling through the flat towards my bedroom. Crashing through the door, I pushed John down onto the mattress. I was determined to disguise my inexperience in that area. Of course I knew how sex worked, and I had watched some of that online pornography; but, as Moriarty had once nicknamed me, I was a virgin. (According to John, masturbation did not count as losing one’s virginity.) But I let my instinct take over, and soon clothes were discarded on the floor and love bites were scattered along both of our bodies. Many fantasies I had had when I couldn’t hold back my body’s human needs was this, John being claimed as mine and only mine, and now he was. I leaned down and kissed his chest.

“Mine,” I growled, and John responded with a moan. I kissed down to his belly, and nuzzled the light trail of hair. “Mine,” I kissed down again, knowing John was watching what I was doing, knowing he knew where I was going. I could feel his body tensing up as I got lower. I kissed the tip of his prick, ignoring the bead of bitter pre-ejaculate that met my lips. It was a fascinating sight; the way the prepuce was already pulled back from the glans, the way it glistened. It made my head reel every time I remembered that this sight was all for me, for my mind to catalogue and keep for years.“Mine.” I dipped my head and John gave a strangled sort of moan and raised his hips. The taste in my mouth was dry and bitter, but I kept going purely because of the reaction it invoked from John. I kept my eyes fixed on his as I alternated between sucking and licking the perineal raphe in quick swipes. John reacted with moans, clenching his fists in my hair. This went on for some time, before John’s muscles clenched and I knew that it was time to pull off. Once my mouth was free, I was pulled up into another lip crushing kiss. I met it with fierce need, my body feeling as if it was on fire. Once the kiss broke, I read John’s intention from his eyes and the way his lips were scattering kisses over my ribs. He had avoided talking about the wrapping on my arm from the bullet, for which I was thankful. I reached over to one of the bedside cabinets and dug through one of the drawers, moaning and arching my back every time John’s lips hit a sensitive spot, and found a barely used bottle of lubricant and a packet of condoms (which I had originally bought for an experiment, but the results had been inconclusive and the information was deleted). I met John’s heated gaze and he gave me a little nod, his breathing ragged. I had seen this portrayed in the pornography I had watched, so I had a vague idea of what to do. I squirted some of the clear lubricant onto my hand, pushed John’s thighs apart and spread it along his entrance and onto my fingers. I put some extra on, to be sure. John hadn’t taken his eyes off me, and the way his body was reacting to me and the things I was doing was almost like a spectacular piece of art, beautiful and something I just wanted to catalogue in the cabinet ‘Not to be deleted’ and from there, the folder ‘John.’

“Please,” he murmured, his voice low and heavy. I bit the inner flesh of my bottom lip and gently pressed the tip of my index finger against the opening. John sucked in a breath of air and nodded sharply. When I applied more force, it slipped in easily and then all I could feel was John, hot and tight. He let out his breath as a moan and my head spun. “Sherlock…” His voice was so soft, barely audible, but he said my name with so much meaning that the emotion overwhelmed me. I began to thrust my finger slowly, getting a feel of the intricacies of John’s body and which spots were especially sensitive. After a few minutes, I added another finger, which made John wince. Using more knowledge gleaned from the internet video I scissored those two fingers, which made John’s lips twitch and his hips rise and fall. Soon there was a third, and I knew that by now he would be appropriately stretched - but I didn’t want to pull my fingers out and lose the warmth John’s body was giving me. I watched John’s hand go to his penis, which had been twitching in anticipation. He gave it a few strokes before I pulled my fingers out, and his hips dropped and he looked at me. His chest was heaving and his hand was still holding his prick, and everything in his body language screamed arousal and want. _For me_. It was like something from a dark dream, almost exactly a thing I had dreamed before the Fall, before Irene Adler, before Moriarty barged into our lives.

I grabbed the condom packet, refusing to take my eyes off John. When I had one, I ripped open the foil packet - _so much packeting, it seemed like the retailers wanted the mood to be ruined_ \- and rolled it onto my own erection. John’s lips parted as he watched me, and the intensity on his face was breathtaking. I spread lubricant along the latex, the feeling sending stabbing heat through my abdomen and _God, that feels incredible…_

“Hands and knees, John,” I whispered, and he complied without a moment’s hesitation. It hurt to see how much he trusted me. I took his hips in my hands, and John shivered at the touch. I closed my eyes, playing the online pornography on fast-forward in my mind. But, instead of copying that, I took a risk and followed an instinct I hadn’t encountered in almost a decade. I pushed myself forward, and the two of us moaned in unison. John felt even better around my penis than around my fingers, and I decided I could get used to this. Panting, I rested my head on John’s back, hair just brushing the base of his neck.

“I-I’m not fragile, Sherlock,” John breathed, his knuckles white from clenching the sheets. “You can move… If you don’t mind…” I gently kissed his spine (T5, at a guess) before experimentally rolling my hips. John hissed beneath me, his head dropping.

“Are you alright?” I murmured, rubbing soft circles on his coccyx. I felt the muscles of John working and stretching more and the feeling was indescribable. Put simply, it was exquisite. I had only ever felt something approaching this when presented with a particularly devious case. The human body — John’s body — was a beautiful thing. At that moment, all I wanted was to lie down with him and never again subject him to the pain I had caused him almost three years ago to the day.

“I’m fine… Just… Please.” John pushed back against me and he moaned again. I repeated my earlier movement and began thrusting slowly to relieve the growing pressure. John was beginning to breathe heavily, some breaths ending on hisses of pain, which made me still, or soft cries that had me flooding with arousal. Although, as good as being inside John was, I was beginning to lose feeling in my legs.

People often said that John and I seemed to speak to each other telepathically. Though that is, of course, impossible, we were admittedly like two sides of the same coin. One look could be a whole conversation. Something like that occurred in the next few seconds, and the upshot of it all was that I ended up on my back with John straddling my hips and moving up and down slowly. This angle was more for his benefit, I figured - although, when he leaned down and kissed me, my mind stopped working. Kissing John with my penis inside him, tearing cries from his throat, made everything worthwhile.

“Sher—Oh God, right there, again—“ John moaned into my mouth. I arched my hips to find the same spot and John melted into me, crying out into my neck. _Prostate stimulation_. I thrust upwards again and again, John’s damp and tousled hair pressed into my equally sweaty shoulder and right hand clenched on my chest. I could feel the brush of his other hand as it moved along his own penis, faster, and faster, and soon his voice was lost as everything around me tightened. I thrust up once more and John was gone, an animalistic cry passing through us both as he came. Oh, he was beautiful, and I was going to keep this locked in the file.

“You’re thinking… Stop,” John whispered, his hips still working. “Just let go Sherlock…” John kissed me, his movements matching my irregular thrusts. “I’ve wanted this so long - oh my God - Sherlock, Jesus Christ - you inside of me… I’m yours, Sherlock… Fuck - I love you.” John’s words sounded far away now, until he said those three words, those stupidly significant eight letters, and I was undone. My orgasm flowed through me in waves, and I swear I saw stars. John stopped moving, and he lifted himself off me. He blindly looked for tissues to clean us up and I removed the condom with shaking fingers. My hard drive was still in sleep mode, and I heard a soft buzzing in my ears. Then John’s arms were around me, and his fingers were brushing close to my gunshot wound.

“Someone shot you,” he whispered. It was a fragile moment, but his words were hard. _John’s face was open and possessive, angry that he wasn’t there to protect me, love, kindness, wishing he could turn back time (file away for further examination)_.

“Moran,” I answered.

“He was the one assigned to you, John. When he knew I was alive, he threatened you again. I couldn’t let him kill you.”

“Where is he?”

“Dead.” John looked at me, his fingers stilling.

“You shot him?”

“Mycroft helped,” I touched his face. “He is useful after all.” John laughed softly, and kissed my jaw. I turned my head to meet his lips and marvelled yet again at the way they slotted together perfectly, like they were made to be so. _Two halves of a whole, you and your Doctor Watson. Perhaps like soul mates. He would follow you blindly into the dark, into danger, into something horrifying and something thrilling. He’d love you until the end of his days if you’d let him._

John pulled away with a sigh of contentment, his hand above my heart. The touch was soft, and electricity crackled beneath my skin. “I love you,” he repeated, and my eyes met his. There was silence, broken only by John’s soft breathing. His face was not expectant, but it was honest.

“How?” I didn’t recognise my voice. John shook his head at me, eyes alight.

“The same way every other human being loves, Sherlock,” he stated. “I love you, and I know I do. I had three years to think about it, and I know it’s love.” His fingers skirted along my cheekbone, along the curve of my lips. Kissing his fingertips, I processed his words in my head.

Love: (noun): strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties [irrelevant, does not fit John.] (2): attraction based on sexual desire: affection and tenderness felt by lovers (3): affection based on admiration, benevolence or common interests.

What were John and I now? We crossed a line of friendship when we kissed, and that concept was a mysterious mixture of both fright and delicious thrills; a toxic cocktail I became addicted to when I drank all of John at once.

Lovers: (adjective) a person in love; especially: a man in love with a woman (2) (plural): two persons in love with each other.

Partner: (noun): one associated with another, especially in action: associate, colleague (2): either of two persons who dance together (3) one or two or more persons who play together in a game against an opposing side (4): a person with whom one shares an intimate relationship: one member of a couple.

Boyfriend: (noun): frequent or regular male companion in a romantic or sexual relationship.

“Sherlock, I can hear your mind working from here,” The affection in John’s voice brought me back from the opening vaults of my mind. His face was fond; he was fond of me going into my Mind Palace as I lay in bed with him after having very satisfying sex. (Oh, my John, you are a wonder to behold.) Admiration; he admired me still, even after everything I had put him through because I was so very selfish. ( _You never did learn to share your toys, did you Sherlock?_ ) And there it was - love. Something John expressed every so often. It made him look younger, and more beautiful now that it was directed at me. And he didn’t look hurt that I hadn’t returned his sentiment in words.

“What’s wrong? What are you thinking about?” I once said that sentiment is a chemical defect found only on the losing side, but in that moment I was forced to eat my words. John had never been a disadvantage. John was real, John was now and John was love. Love was my advantage, I supposed, if it was with John.

“Love,” I responded, turning to look at him properly. “I love you too, John Watson.” I cupped his face in my hands, my mind slowly returning to its usual sharpness. John was staring at me with disbelief in his gaze, his eyes looking ever-so-slightly glazed. “I love you, and you love me, and we are one.”

“Thank you,” John spoke with a slight waver in his voice, “Um, I’d like to kiss you now.”

“I’m quite sure you have earned that right,” I murmured, leaning in to meet his lips. We were combined, the head and the heart, together at last. Once, we were lost in a paradise we wanted to leave; now, we were welcomed home to warm arms, crap telly and love. And I loved him, my John. A wound must be cared for in order for it to heal. John was a doctor - _the_ doctor - and he replaced my husk of a heart with half of his own. He healed that wound, and many of my literal ones afterwards. My beacon of light, my conductor of all things. My John.


End file.
